The Curious Case of the Crimson Thread
by dangerprawn
Summary: Holmes uses an unconventional method to sever his cocaine and morphine addictions.


Blood is a fascinating substance. Spill a few drops in the correct configuration and you can make it appear as though you have killed a man. Find it at the scene of a crime and it speaks volumes: the movement and position of persons and objects, the weapon, the number of blows, the sequence of events...

In flight a drop of blood forms itself into a spherical rather than, as some artists portray it, a teardrop shape. Of course, this is what one would expect of any fluid in free fall. The formation of a sphere is the result of surface tension binding the molecules together. Because of this uniformity, accurately measuring the width and length of a single elliptical stain will easily produce numbers useful in calculating an approximation of the impact angle. Triangulate multiple bloodstains and you can find the exact area in space where strikes were made.

Additionally, blood splashing into blood, blood thrown from a blood-bearing object in motion, blood exiting the body under pressure from a breached artery and blood that is blown out of the nose, mouth, or a wound as a result of air pressure each create a unique pattern. For example, splatter a beating typically produces is different from the splatter produced by a gunshot or other machinery. The former appears as a bouquet of large droplets while the latter appears as a fine mist.

The door opened. Watson. I did not need to turn around to know that he stood there at the threshold to my quarters holding his breath. That limp of his makes his stride lopsided. His steps heavier on one side than they are on the other. What gives him away is his hollow cane. I can tell he is coming from a mile away. Although in this case he had come from just down the hall.

"Holmes, have you gone mad?" Perhaps. How would I know if I had? Psychology never was and never will be an exact science no matter how hard men like Freud struggle. As far as I'm concerned not only do psychiatrists serve the same functions as priests but their methods are about as rooted in fact. "What are you doing?"

That was a good question. What was I doing? I glanced about for a clue. That I was disoriented in both time and space should have been my first hint. But, that the grain of the wooden floor looked as though it were unraveling was the most obvious indication of my condition at the moment. The slats appeared to be coming apart and sliding past one another.

I poisoned myself. There was a trail of blood across the room, from the bed to where I was now standing in front of the window. The drops on the floor were indicative of blood being shed from a fresh wound through the force of gravity alone. My left thumb hurt. When I looked down I saw it was bleeding. The glass of the window pane in front of me was also streaked with blood. Then became curious about the effects of the viscosity of blood on the time it takes to trail down a smooth, cool vertical surface.

There was suddenly the sound of Watson plunging through my papers and artifacts. I heard him speaking but I could not be sure if he was asking something of me or simply muttering to himself in annoyance. I turned back to the window and noticed that the blood was beginning to coagulate. The light it threw off played beautifully against the winking of the snow falling outside.

Holmes! Watson's shouting jarred me from my reverie. He was flushed with what appeared to be frustration or anger, holding up five dried, almond shaped leaves.

"I would advise against eating those."

He identified the specimens quickly.

"Atropa belladonna. Atropa as in Atropos, Holmes, the one of the three Greek destinies who was fabled to determine the end of a man's life." I must not have looked concerned enough because he continued by saying, "There's a reason they call it deadly nightshade. A single leaf is enough to kill a man."

Which is precisely why I only ate half."

He was diving through the drawer where I keep most of my poisons and plant alkaloids. I suppose he was searching for the antidote. There was now a frantic urgency in his voice, Why in God's name would you do such a thing?

He stared at me, mouth open as though he was about to say something then shook his head, averted his gaze, touched his fingers to his lips. His eyes flicked back and forth rapidly as though they were tracking a series of quick calculations.

Meanwhile, the room began to spin. Against the pitching and bucking of the floor it took all of my effort and concentration to make it to a chair without collapsing. I hadn't even registered Watson had left me alone. However, when he burst into the room again I was startled. He was soon standing over me with his medical bag and stethoscope.

"Your pupils are the size of saucers."

That wasn't all. I was sweating, trembling all over and my mouth was so dry I barley recognized my own voice when I spoke. My flippant reply was a thinly veiled attempt to prove to both of us that I still had enough of my wits about me to joke.

"It doesn't suit me?"

"Were you _trying_ to kill yourself?" his voice had a hard, ragged edge. Even in this state it was obvious to me that my long-suffering friend was for once as livid as he was concerned.

Producing intelligible speech was becoming difficult. The seconds seemed to stretch out indefinitely and hang wavering in the air between us, Not at all...

He cupped my face in his hands. At any other time this invasion of my personal space would have earned him a cutting rebuke. However, Watson, if anything, is an astute physician and realized that forcing me to look him in the eyes would help me to comprehend what he was about to tell me through my dampened, assaulted senses.

Dosing the antidote alkaloid, which is itself a poison, may kill you. But, if you take a turn for the worst I am going to take that chance and treat you. Do you understand?

I worked my numb mouth but I had no way with words. If I had I would have thanked him. Instead, I nodded mutely.

He helped me into bed and kept me company as all rational thought fled my mind. I soon lost track of whether I was sleeping or awake. It felt as though I fell asleep only once yet awoke several times. This was not nearly as terrifying as it might sound. What was worse was the fact that I was in such tremendous pain I could easily have forgotten if I was alive or dead. Even if I had known I had died I would have been so thankful for the relief that I doubt it would have mattered very much to me.

After a while, I lost track of the borders defining my form. I was not myself but the space around me. I felt that I was drifting away, dissolving. I was at once spread out over the entire city and condensed to the head of a pin. For a time I was aware of only this and the agony and the knowledge that Watson was still at my bedside.

Then, I began to hallucinate that my body was a puzzle, a mystery. I became convinced that in order to make the delirium end I would have to solve myself. I dreamed that I was at once my beloved London and chasing myself through the labyrinth of its back alleys. I saw the city as snowbound, glowing eerily in the light that only shines before daybreak.

Each brick, each bend of each alley was exactly as I remembered it. Except, it was devoid of any life. Strangely, the disappearance of an entire metropolis did not concern me in the least. The whole population could have been dead and rotting away in their beds for all I cared. It wouldn't have mattered. Instead, through the mind numbing pain, the complete stillness and silence brought me the most tremendous sense of comfort and peace I have ever experienced.

The only melancholy I felt was for my dear Watson. I needed to find him, to share this with him. After all, if I didn't it would all be wasted. I noticed on the ground before me a crimson thread peaked its head out of the pristine snow. I gave it a tug. It pulled up out of the snow some feet ahead but I saw no end to it. I followed it. Before I knew it, I was flying through the city streets gathering the string in my hands.

I ran and I ran, turn after turn, street after street for what seemed like an eternity. I named the sights I saw as I went. However, after a time the uniqueness of each darkened street lamp and blacked window began to melt away. The scarlet thread became a mass tangled around my fingers as I staggered through the snow. I was hopelessly lost. The somewhat foolish thought crossed my mind that I might as well lie down and wait to die.

But, at last I glanced up to see the familiar address 221B spelled proudly out next to a warmly lit doorway. I ascended the seventeen creaking stairs. I returned to myself, to my good friend, to our home. I was once again aware of the placement of my body in space and of Watson pressing water to my lips, encouraging me to be brave as the old house hummed a song that soothed me into a dreamless sleep.

When I finally regained consciousness I felt tired in my very bones. My first observation was that outside the sun was setting on the melting snow. Icicles had formed on the eves. So, I gathered that this must have been the evening of the second day since I embarked on my strange journey.

My second observation was that Watson was slumped over, snoring softly in a chair next to my bed. His ruffled head was resting on my mattress. One of his hands held mine while the other rested at my wrist as though he had fallen asleep while taking my pulse. He only snores when he is completely exhausted. I could only assume that he had stood watch over me for the past fifty six or more hours.

I attempted to extract my arm from between his hands without waking him. But, he sat up with a start. We assessed one another for a long moment.

"Holmes, do you know where you are?"

"I believe..." Good Lord, had I honestly been unable to answer such simple questions? "I'm in my bedroom on the first floor of flat 221 B, Baker Street, London, England."

Relief washed over his tired face. But, this, apparently, was not the answer he was looking for because in the next instant he was holding me by the front of my dressing gown. His hands were trembling. I could feel his breath as he bared his teeth to snarl:

"Hippocrates be damned, if you drug yourself with anything ever again I'll put an end to your foolishness and finish what Nature started myself."

"Hn... did you know," The reason for my drastic action still hadn't dawned on him. I suppose he still had not found the case I usually use to carry my syringe empty of both cocaine and morphine, "scopolamine been used experimentally to treat cocaine and morphi-"

Then, all at once he seemed to understand exactly the aim of my experiment, You are completely insane, Holmes. Completely..."

I had heard the wetness in his voice but had interpreted it as rage. I did not realize he was also silently sobbing until his tears struck my cheek."

"Never again, my dear," I whispered in the nearest to an apology "I could manage. I promise you. Never again.


End file.
